Vicissitude
by Miss Artemis
Summary: AU Body twitching in excitement and fear, Hermione waited with bated breath, eyes consistently straying to the table of red and gold. However, quite unexpectedly, the hat didn't yell Gryffindor as she requested...but Ravenclaw.
1. Prologue: Freak Accident

~.~.~ **Vicissitude** ~.~.~

A/N: This story, although AU, will tie very closely with the real series by J.K. Rowling with obvious differences, pairings, and whatnot. I do not own Harry Potter (goes crying in a corner) but I do own any OC characters that might be placed inside or of any objects created as well to serve certain purposes. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. This story will also remain Rated: T until fifth year - then it will change to M, whenever we get there. :D Thanks, and enjoy!

SUMMARY: Body twitching in excitement and fear, Hermione Granger waited with baited breath to be sorted, her eyes consistently turning to the table of red and gold. However, quite unexpectedly, the hat didn't bellow Gryffindor as she had requested…but Ravenclaw.

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Dark and ominous, yet beautiful and magnificently stately, the Malfoy Manor hovered on the precipice of the finely manicured lawn. Elegant and exotic albino peacocks strutted along the dark green grass, small heads on long necks bobbing up and down gently, low coos escaping their light-beige beaks. Their pale plumes were folded over their backs, trailing against the blades of grass ever the slightest. The large lawn, even within the dark, looked to be greatly well-taken cared of with lush, evenly cut grass as it gradually crescendo-ed up the hill. Spare trees and bushes were well-manicured and contained patches of wild flowers near the house, surrounding the large, white marble carved fountain in the center of the cobble-stoned walkway (that was certainly unneeded), were wonderfully arranged in aesthetically pleasing arrangements.

The mansion itself was exquisite with numerous bay windows lining the front from the left to right, east to west, on all floors: first, second, and third. Quite proudly, the estate held approximately thirty-eight windows (with twenty-four on the front face of the house in between the marble pillars), two sets of windows on each side of the house, and eight in the back including a large glass patio wall that led out to a large, spacious deck equipped with only the best outdoor lounging chairs and tables (where tea parties and picnics were most popularly held). The deck was a deep oak, the Malfoy family crest fondly emblazoned on the surface. The Manor was constructed of the finest granite. Frivolous displays of wealth were represented by fantastically manufactured sculptures near the top of the alternating pillars in the front of the house, surrounding the large French entrance doors, every step and even some randomly scattered meticulously along the lawn. A beautiful, intricate engraving of twin snakes swirled around the Malfoy crest along the massive lock that barred the large, threatening thin, black gates closed, surrounding the entire Malfoy plot.

A place of such beauty, wealth and power…Many witches and wizards could only _dream_ of being anywhere near such displays, much less than actually own it.

It was so hard for eighteen-year-old Hermione Granger to comprehend the fact that the Mansion was housing an evil individual so fowl and so dark that it even made the cupids on the fountain, as she passed by it with a stiff and rigid Professor Snape, seem unfriendly and forewarning. Their upturned lips of what should have been smiles and squeals of laughter turned mocking and cruel; their almond shaped eyes hooded – as if drunk by the power emanating from the household. Even the crystalline waters that gently rippled from the actions of the fish underneath appeared black and polluted. Licking her dry lips, the bushy-haired witch tried to calm down the rampaging heart that was trying very hard to run from her chest and back to the safe haven that was Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. From underneath her drawn up hood, Hermione cast back a furtive glance at the other pale-faced, lightly sweating recruits that were also being escorted by their sponsors. Their eyes reflected the inner turmoil, disbelief, and sudden terror as realization at what they were about to do entering their minds. Yet no one tried to run away.

It would be the last thing one wanted to do. No one, absolutely no one, turned back when expressing an affirmative interest in joining Lord Voldemort. If one somehow did manage to escape the more than proficient Death Eaters alive and well, it only meant that they could never be safe again; only to be hunted down.

Dear God, she could not believe that she was doing this. Hermione glanced up at the large house as they crept closer, her large brown eyes taking in the Roman architecture and if it had been any other occasion, she would have shown a great amount of intrigue. But alas, it wasn't, and Hermione barely gave the figurines more than an appreciative glance at the vast detail that was put forth in the wind-blown togas.

They reached the first of twelve steps that led to a pair of tall, dark French doors and Hermione must have started hyperventilating because Professor Snape managed to whisper severely, yet soothingly at the same time, so that they could not be overheard through his Death Eater mask.

"Miss Granger, control yourself! We're almost there." He scolded her from the corner of his mouth.

Hermione glanced at the taller man beside her and pushed down the urge to push him into the fountain as she fiercely whispered back, "How can I control myself when I am coming closer to enslaving myself to _him_?!"

"For Merlin's sake, woman," she swore that she could see his pitiless black eyes flashing with irritation through the slits of his mask, "Use your Occlumency breathing exercises. Use what little time you have left to strengthen your mind's defenses."

Grudgingly, Hermione bit her uncharacteristically rebel and disrespectful tongue to do what he ordered. To be truthful, he was right. She should have been doing exactly that the moment they arrived just outside of the gates and the Anti-Apparition wards. Hermione lowered her eyes to the stone her feet softly scuffed on and allowed herself to travel deep within her subconscious, searching for the Hogwarts library that she oh-so loved and enjoyed with the deepest depths of her heart. She traveled along through the labyrinth-like shelves packed full with books and leaflets of parchment, the scents of ink and paper wafting through her senses. Most of the books were unlocked and ready for perusal, books that glimpsed into the memories she was willing to be pried into. Not glancing at the books, Hermione made her way to the Restricted Section of the library and with her wand unlocked the dozens of security attachments with a small amount of effort.

She closed the door behind her softly and looked at the two oppositely-facing shelves that were filled with many thin booklets. She checked every single book, reinforcing the keep-away charms and wards on the locks of the books with vehemence. Memories of Order meetings, meetings with the secret location of her muggle parents, memories of her learning Professor Snape's true alliance, memories of Draco's confession of not wishing to tread down the path of a Death Eater, intimate memories with Theo, rather embarrassing memories she wouldn't dare to allow the Dark Lord to peruse, and certain (she blushed) fantasies. All of them were locked again. Memories of her helping Harry and Ron find the Chamber of Secrets, she doubly locked that memory. Something inside her told her that the Dark Lord would not have been pleased one ounce to learn that she had been the reason why the sixteen-year-old memory of his former self was unable to cleanse the school and get rid of Harry Potter. Nor would he be happy to notice that she had gone back in time with Harry to save his rather handsome (she blushed) godfather, Sirius Black. No, no indeed.

Once reassured that she had locked every vital memory to her highest of capability, Hermione redid the locks of the Restricted Section and even added on another for extra measure.

A hand on her shoulder forced Hermione abruptly back to the present. They were entering through the doors and Hermione felt her heart tremble even harder as she took in the large, grand staircase that was proudly displayed in the capacious entrance hall. Its black marble steps lined up in rounded curves to an overhang that led to the second floor, both sides assuredly leading to guestrooms. Small pillar pedestals holding expensive-looking vases (filled with most probably exotic, imported flowers) lined the hallways. Off to the right they saw a dining room of grandeur that held a long, dark cherry wood table and numerous small, leather-padded chairs. Dirty, poorly-clothed house elves were running around the magically enhanced room with a feared tenacity that tugged at Hermione's compassionate heart as they re-dusted the walls, the chairs, wiped down the surface of the table until it gleamed precociously, snapped their fingers and cleaned the fur rug that coated the wooden flooring. They polished small pieces of work that were displayed here and there. Gorgeous, goblin-crystal goblets suddenly appeared within the time span of a blink of an eye, shimmering and reflecting everything off within its vicinity. Empty, silver platters were whisked onto the table with the same manner as were multiple eating utensils lying upon crisply folded white napkins that were delicately emblazoned with the Malfoy crest in ivory, the slightest change in the nuance of color making it subtle yet elegant.

To the left was the drawing room, compiled with comfortable-looking furniture that were held up by obsidian marble frames, the armrests coiled serpents. The high ceiling held a mural reminiscent to the painting in the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo. The bright and soft colors of the ceiling contradicting strikingly against the stark black and white décor of the room and the further they traveled through the large estate, the more Hermione understood why Voldemort would wish to dwell and scheme here than at the graveyard that Harry had described during fourth year. Every part of this dwelling screamed status, blood purity, royalty, and wealth. What a better way to boost up your self-esteem and confidence by surrounding yourself in such leisure?

_But it must suck for Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy_, Hermione couldn't help but sympathize with the matriarch. Although Mr. Malfoy would be more than pleased, most undoubtedly honored, to house his lord, Narcissa Malfoy might be the most distressed at being in such close proximity to the man that was the epitome of the Dark Arts. Of the few times that she had seen Mrs. Malfoy, she always held that air of haughtiness and superiority. Hermione couldn't help but wonder if she will see the same look when they entered for the ceremony to take place.

It didn't take them long to reach the patio, to pass it and go on to the deck. Hermione felt her breath hitch up into her throat as dozens upon dozens of heads, clothed in black masks, turned in almost aching sync to gaze at the fresh meat with ravenous eyes. From the height, Hermione could see the flash of bright blonde-silver hair. _Draco…_The young man, though having grown in to his own skin and a far cry from the helpless boy he had been during his years at Hogwarts, looked shaken and sick to his stomach. Another flash of bright blonde made Hermione look to the source and was utterly shocked at the mortification and fear that was horribly trying to be suppressed on the woman's pretty features (when said facial features weren't scrunched up in distaste). Her hands were bone-white as she clasped on to her handkerchief, beside a clothed Lucius Malfoy, tall and erect. She heard, rather than saw, Bellatrix Lestrange as she shrieked with abandoned happiness and pleasure.

"Milord! Milord! The new recruits are here!"

Hermione felt an uncomfortable chill roll up and down her spine at another bark of laughter that left the woman's heavily lipstick-coated lips; her dark, brooding eyes were sparkling; her tangled black hair, though shiny, was haphazardly thrown into a messy bun. It appeared that she didn't care that the other Death Eaters saw her face.

"Indeed…"

A low yet oddly high-pitched voice returned. Hermione felt her body tremble despite her attempts at stopping the natural reaction. The smooth voice was like that of a cold, winter blast of wind. Chilling and seeping its coldness to the center of her being, taking away any warmth she might have had underneath her plain, black cloak – and far faster and effective than any Dementor could have done.

Heart thumping loudly in her ears, Hermione almost didn't register Professor Snape discreetly poking her shoulder to follow the pair before them and down the steps to the backyard that was just as beautiful as the front. Past the throngs of unbelievably large amounts of Death Eaters (Hermione never thought that there were this many), a tall man stood by a large pond that reflected the bright, semi-fullness of the moon in the sky. The large weeping willow overshadowing a small portion of the lake didn't mar the man's image. The stark paleness of the bald head set him off as a beacon, seen by all. Slowly, he turned.

A scream threatened to escape her lips yet Hermione thankfully managed to suppress it.

Extremely thin lips spread into a horrific, foxy smirk. A pair of slated, crimson orbs burned brightly through the pitch blackness of the night like twin flames. Long, spidery fingers caressed a thirteen-inch, phoenix-feathered wand.

Once the recruits were ushered into a large circle that the surrounding Death Eaters formed, Lord Voldemort spread his long limbs outward into a sweeping gesture of welcome. It only succeeded in making many of them flinch.

"Let us begin," he hissed triumphantly.

* * *

Prologue: Freak Accident

* * *

Eleven-year-old, almost twelve, Hermione Granger hummed lightly under her breath in between half-mumbled recited formulas and whatnot as she finished her homework for the evening.

The scents of books surrounding her gave the little girl a sense of ease as she worked her ballpoint pen to exhaustion on the rough draft that she was making for English class. The lined paper she was currently pouring over was supposed to be a small one-page, two-hundred word biographical essay of the author of the book they had read for third quarter. Where as others would have done the basics (birth, family, career, death) and winged it until they got the required minimum of two hundred words, Hermione proved once again to overachieve by the full nine yards. Unlike most who used the public library's computers to type out their essay and print it out (free of charge), Hermione much rather preferred to write out the three rough drafts she usually does for every essay sent her way. She was actually going over her second one right now. Her total word count, so far, was up to three hundred and fifty-nine words, not too much overkill, she believed.

Amongst her curly handwriting, Hermione corrected her mistakes with a red pen, her front buck-teeth biting gently on her bottom lip in concentration. A small, ink-stained hand absentmindedly batted away a stray, tickling curly strand of fuzz from time to time. Large, inquisitive brown eyes scanned through the extremely cramped lines with ease that would instead leave a person feeling dizzy. The margins were decorated heavily with new facts to add in along with miniscule notes to change the wording of a sentence that sounded odd. When finished through, Hermione placed her pen down, and giving the papers a good ruffle to smooth them out, read the essay once again. She shook her head in aggravation as she caught another "their" that was supposed to be a "there." It was a horrid habit of hers.

Correcting the error, Hermione dropped the papers and picked up a thick reference text with a list of influential authors in the UK, the picture and name of her author meeting her gaze. She turned the page. The large pages were covered in head to toe with incredibly small print. Where as any other child would have groaned in distress at having to look at such boring drivel about someone they didn't even really care to know about, Hermione's eyes lit up and her smile widened. Bending over, Hermione read the book quickly underneath her breath, her guiding index finger leading her.

Three pairs of contemptuous eyes stared at the small, bushy-haired girl who was eagerly pouring herself over the large tomes around her. She was constantly making sticky notes, writing little tidbits on to source cards. The three boys looked at her, their gazes hard and envious.

"She's such a show-off," one muttered hotly.

"Making herself look more important than anyone."

"Just because she's freakishly smart doesn't mean that she's all-shit."

"Stupid, ugly bird," another one mumbled darkly, black eyes shooting daggers at the oblivious bookworm. They flashed hotly, slightly chubby cheeks flushing light in anger, resentment, and humiliation of her rejecting him to play four-square with him…_just so she could read a stupid, boring book_. His play-worn fingertips clutched at the book in his hands.

"Looks like she's writing some novel," the taller one sneered, his eyes discreetly sneaking a peak at his rather abysmal paper that was only half-finished. It was a no-brainer that the geek's paper would be ten times better than his. And without a doubt their teacher would once again go spouting off praise and awe once again during class about little Miss Perfect's paper.

The smallest boy at the table looked at her with disinterest. In truth, he didn't really hold a grudge against her for she was always polite, even if a bit pretentious in the way she spoke. What with having two extremely well-known dentist-surgeons, the little boy could only wonder even more if she hadn't. Everyone within their district knew how well-off the Granger family was. They had a nice, white, two-floor story house with a picket fence and a beautiful garden in the back. It was picturesque. Mr. Granger was in his early fifties (was it allowed to have parents that old?) but looked to be in his early forties. Mrs. Granger was young in her mid-thirties. With having such older, mature parents, it was a given that their only child would inherit both of their sense of maturity and brains.

But it didn't make it any easier to deal with.

They lowered their heads and began to whisper in conspiring tones.

A small beep from her digital watch caused Hermione to look up in mild irritation. She looked at the highlighted screen and sighed. Five thirty. The library would be closing soon and mum would be starting dinner. Since she could not check out the book from the library, or leave sticky notes, Hermione wrote down the page numbers and title. Closing the dozens of books surrounding her, Hermione grabbed them into her arms and strolled around the vast labyrinth to place them back in their rightful places. Biographical section, non-fiction, reference section; Hermione gave a small, shy smile at the librarian who smiled at her in thanks for cleaning up her area.

She passed by a table containing three boys from her class. She missed the cruel glint in their eyes.

Hastily making her way to the small, round table, Hermione stuffed her notebooks, pens, and papers into the satchel and slung it over her shoulder. Gracing the kind librarian with a "goodnight" and "see you tomorrow," Hermione headed out into the hallway that was filled with lockers left and right. The hallways were dimly lit, causing her shadow to stretch farther. _I wonder what Mum will make for dinner_, Hermione thought to herself, a small, lonely yet content smile spreading on her lips. Her frizzy hair bounced up and down with her steps as she came closer to the exit.

Hermione thought back to the boys in the library and felt a small jolt of longing in her scholarly driven heart. Hermione Granger didn't have friends, she had the random one here and there, but classes and social circles usually tended to break them apart. And when they were separated, well, social opinion took it up from there.

_Thinks she's better than everyone._

_Look at her, always waving her hand at every question._

_Such a show-off._

_Teacher's pet._

_What a snoot._

_Doesn't she at least care for her appearance? I mean look at her and her buck teeth!_

_You'd think with parents as dentists would have given her the perfect smile._

Hermione felt the irritating prick behind her eyes as tears gently brimmed on the bottom edge of her eyes. The water blurred away her brown Mary-Janes. In truth, she was lonely and wanted nothing more than to reach out, but how could she? In the beginning, she thought that her intelligence would be friends closer, while instead it created nothing but foes. She was far from being inattentive to the people around her. She heard the rumors, the gossip behind her back. People would act nice and friendly to her when working on a project, but the moment it was finished, their nice-guy act disappeared to reveal the horrible monster underneath.

They poked fun at her hair and her teeth relentlessly. Hermione could barely count all of the times she had cried herself to sleep after successfully reigning in her emotions away from her overwhelming parents. If they knew the abuse, the bullying she was receiving, they would pull her out right away and take her to a new private school without a single thought to the difficulties of moving, of having to find new positions in clinics. She loved them, she really did, but she couldn't fathom doing that to them. They paid a good deal of money for her to attend the prestigious primary school.

A sigh escaped her. Friends. Did she really want them? Sure, it would be nice to laugh and talk to someone other than her parents once and a while, to feel that sense of belonging outside of the home, to know that someone cared for you. Hermione wouldn't deny that she wished to feel that way. To have sleep-overs, to have someone to play with outside of school, to converse with academically would be very ideal. But what about the downsides of a friendship? The nagging, the slightly harmful teasing, the pressuring to do something popular, to change oneself – Hermione didn't think that she would really like that. She liked reading her large tomes and old American literature, to read poems by Harriet Beecher Stowe, Frederick Douglass, and Ralph Waldo Emerson. She liked reading Shakespearean tales and playwrights. She liked Jane Austen and Jules Verne. She liked Mary-Janes and plaited skirts and sweater-vests, and although she would love nothing more than to tame her hair just the slightest, she knew that she wouldn't have it any other way.

And her teeth, Hermione knew that within time she would grow into them.

With a nod of her head, Hermione felt her heart steel with newfound resolve. She could make it.

A hand roughly grabbed her shoulder with such a wrenching force, Hermione gave a surprised gasp. Seeing a flash of leering eyes and cruel smirks, Hermione gave an outraged, panicked cry when finding her small body thrust into a plain tan locker. Her satchel was torn from her side as her head banged sharply against the back of the locker, making her see stars. So dizzy and out of focus, Hermione barely made a move forward when the door to the locker slammed closed. Engulfed in darkness, brown eyes snapped open in fear at being pressed in a small fourteen inch by fourteen inch locker. Fast breaths escaped her, tears staining her eyes. She immediately began banging on the door in frantic hysterics.

"L-Let me out! LET ME OUT!" she cried, tears falling down her cheeks.

The boys laughter made her sob harder.

"Blimey this bag is heavy!"

"Let's look inside –"

"Bet its filled with books and shit."

"STAY OUT OF THERE," Hermione pleaded, her heart clenching in tightness as she heard a sound of a zipper and the pouring objects on the tiled floor. The sounds of books and papers rustling made Hermione slam her fists harder onto the metal. A hard slap on the locker made her recoil.

"Pipe down, freak! We'll let you out sooner or later."

"When we feel like it." One of them chortled.

"Guys look at this! She's writing a novel like we said she was."

"Hey! Hey! Let me see it for a moment."

Dread filled her.

"Hey, Hermione," said one of the boys. Hermione perked up in hope. "Listen to this."

A loud distinct rip of paper being shredded entered her ears.

The boys keeled over in boisterous laughter as Hermione began screaming at them in angry tears. They hooted and mocked her cries to be let out, taking sinful joy in ripping her essay apart until there was nothing left to place it back together.

"Let's do the same to her book!"

"_The Templar Legacy_ by Steve Berry – sounds like a bore."

Righteous, indignant anger filled her. She had done absolutely _nothing_ to them! All she ever did was strive to learn more, read to her heart's content, and did the best to her capability in every class. Why was that so wrong? Why was she to be condemned from all of the others? What made her so special? Why was she singled out from amongst the other depressed outcasts that inhabited their school? The teachers adored her – they appreciated her efforts. Why couldn't they? All she wanted was to be accepted and feel belonged. All she wanted was to be acknowledged by her peers. Why was it so wrong to be the best that you could possibly be?

Fury, that she had never known herself to possess, weld up in her stomach before bubbling up her throat and entering her mouth with venom and bitter taste. Eyes screwed shut tightly, Hermione moved forward to bang her fists against the door of the locker once again.

"LET. ME. _OUT!_"

The next thing that happened was perhaps one of the most mystifying experiences she ever had.

With the calculation of her mass and the force behind her thin arms in contrast to the door that was latched indefinitely in place, Hermione knew what happened next was illogical, impossible. With a large whistle and a bang, the door shot away from the locker frame to collide loudly against the hard-tiled wall and falling with a ruckus. The fortunate boys who were out of the path of the door, stared in slack-jawed amazement, their hair and clothes ruffled from the whistled air. The book lied clutched in their hands unharmed. Hermione, breathing heavily in exertion, could only stare in shock at the battered, bent form of the door across the hall. Her knees trembled underneath her plaited skirt. Her hands trembled in their formed fists. Tears stained her cheeks as small wisps of brown hair fluttered around her face before settling.

A strangled sound met her ears. Gulping and licking her dry lips, Hermione cautiously stepped out of the locker and into the deadly-silent hallway. She felt her heart drop to her stomach as she looked at the shredded remains of her essay – there was no hope in restoring it. Glancing at the boys, however, made her go numb. There was only one expression on their faces: fear. She opened her mouth to say something and gasping, the boys dropped the book as if it had burned them upon contact. They turn-tailed and ran out of sight. A boy turned around to lock eyes with her, only for him to turn and run even faster than before. Hermione gulped, her body trembling as she wondered what she was supposed to do, her brain frantically trying to come to terms with what just happened.

When hearing a door far down the hall slam open along with hurrying footsteps, Hermione panicked and quickly grabbed her satchel and her book that was dropped unceremoniously on the ground. Stuffing it into her bag, Hermione sprinted out the exit doors before the librarian saw her. Even with a painful stitch in her side, Hermione didn't relent on her hell bent path towards home, wild curls and frizz flying behind her shoulders. Reaching home, the girl ran past the kitchen, ignoring her mother's concerned calls. She ran up the stairs, stumbling twice, to the second floor. She dropped her belongings in the aisle and hurried into the bathroom, slamming the door. Promptly locking it, Hermione dashed away from the dark oak, huddling in between the bathtub and the loo, her legs curled into her chest.

Tears ran rampant down her cheeks, pit-pattering softly against her knees. Her body shook with her sobs, fear and revulsion shaking her to the core. She didn't feel right, as if there was something unbelievably dirty and _wrong_ about her, as if her skin didn't feel right. Her knuckles turned white, her fingers bruising her skin as she clutched at her calves. Hermione tried with all her might to use her logic and common sense, to go over every detail of what happened and dissect it until she understood what happened. Maybe there could be a realistic reason why what happened the way it did. Maybe her earlier beatings against the door had weakened the hinges. Maybe the lock had been damaged when the boys slammed it roughly after shoving her in. But nothing made sense. Nothing connected. Nothing was concrete. Nothing anchored her.

All she could see was the face of the boy who looked back at her.

As if she was a monster.

* * *

Kindly review, please! Tell me what you think! Should I continue? I just wanted to see a story where Hermione wasn't always not placed in Gryffindor but Slytherin. So let's try Ravenclaw!

-Miss Artemis


	2. A Bizarre Letter

**~.~.~ Vicissitude ~.~.~**

A/N: This story, although AU, will tie very closely with the real series by J.K. Rowling with obvious differences, pairings, and whatnot. I do not own Harry Potter (goes crying in a corner) but I do own any OC characters that might be placed inside or of any objects created as well to serve certain purposes. Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. This story will also remain Rated: T until fifth year - then it will change to M, whenever we get there. :D Thanks, and enjoy!

SUMMARY: Body twitching in excitement and fear, Hermione Granger waited with bated breath to be sorted, her eyes consistently turning to the table of red and gold. However, quite unexpectedly, the hat didn't bellow Gryffindor as she had requested…but Ravenclaw.

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"Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood." – Marie Curie

* * *

Chapter 1: A Bizarre Letter

* * *

Hermione never talked about the incident – instead, she pushed it to the back of her mind with the intent to allow the memory to be lost and covered in dust. She would forget and move on. It was a freak accident and nothing more. She utterly refused to think about it.

After leaving the bathroom in the wee hour of two in the morning, Hermione barricaded herself into her room with her satchel and, with great determination, re-wrote her second draft of her essay. Her mind raced frantically to forget the earlier day's happenings and with good fortune, the need to do work and not allow her mind to become idle, proved very effective in keeping her mind on task with a math problem.

She raced through the assignment, through fractions, story problems, linear equations, distribution problems, and pre-algebra. Her brown eyes were a blur as they skimmed through the reading assignment for Social Studies that wouldn't be due for another couple of days. She studied dates and practiced memorizing important facts, made notes and tabs. Hermione did her English grammar packet that wouldn't be due for another week at the most and did the reading assignment along with the worksheet assigned with it.

In one night.

Hermione would have been happy to continue like so for numerous days until the memory proved permanently erased from her mind. But unfortunately, it was the middle of the school week.

School, she grimaced.

Nobody came within a foot of her. Apparently the boys were quick to spread the word of the mysterious incident at the public library as everyone gave her worried, fearful glances that they thought she didn't notice. No one bugged her, no one mocked her, no one gossiped about her – quite the contrary, they ignored her.

One time at the school library she found a book that looked very intriguing and made way to take it off the shelf, only for her fingers to come in contact with another's. The bushy-haired girl made way to apologize when the other girl gasped, reeling away from her. She mumbled a hurried "sorry" and took off without another word, shooting scared glances back at her. No one except the librarian looked at her, trying to look intent on their homework while their trembling bodies contradicted against their over-exaggerated gestures of turning papers and writing notes.

Her teachers were puzzled at the strange behavior of the students towards the little girl. It continued on for another two weeks before the principal had called Hermione from class and her parents from work to come to the office where he kindly interrogated them.

Are there in problems at home?

Is she affiliated with any gangs?

Drugs?

Depression?

Maybe sessions with the school counselor?

Her parents had been so affronted at the principal's rude and highly insulting questions that they didn't hesitate to pull Hermione out of school without asking Hermione directly what the problem was (for which she continued happily grateful for).

And so here she was, living at home with no homework to occupy herself, her jumping mind, and in the middle of April – just a month and a half away from finishing the school year. Giving a sigh, the girl plumped herself onto her small swivel chair in front of her writing desk. A small stack of paper lied in the center in neat precision without a sheet out of place, a small cup in the corner of the desk held her favorite ballpoint pens of varying colors. Taking a pen, Hermione gently tapped the capped end in thought, her head lying against her palm, feet jiggling.

"I'm so bored…" she murmured into thin air, brown-toffee eyes looking at the small shelf above her desk on the wall that held some of her most favorite tales.

Hermione, the logical child that she was, had never been for fantasy-novels, preferring to stay to facts and realism. However, she couldn't help but harbor the fond obsession for mystery thriller novels that involved investigation skills, quick wit and intellectual knowledge of the surroundings hinted in the pages. _Map of Bones_ by James Rollins, _The Dante Club_ by Matthew Pearl, _The Footprints of God_ by Greg Iles, _The Historian_ by Elizabeth Kostova, _A Treasury of Hans Christian Anderson_, _The Reincarnationist_ by M.J. Rose, and _Angels and Demons_ by Dan Brown. All of them were fascinating with intricate plots, intriguing dialogue, and in-depth cultural explorations. It was certainly a far cry from what a nearly twelve-year-old's personal book selection should have been.

For a moment, she wondered what school her mother and father would try to enroll her in.

Hermione grimaced once again. The private primary school she had previously attended was very prestigious in contrast to the surrounding academies. Hermione knew the drill when her parents would petition that she be accepted into their education program. She had a brilliant mind, was respectful, polite and very eager to learn. She was the teacher's embodiment of a what a pupil should be. And yet, when learning what school she had attended previously and learning that she had _withdrawn_ from the academy, they would close their doors with a "sorry, but we're currently experiencing an influx of applications and we don't have the time or capacity to ensure your daughter a lovely educational experience."

Alan and Jeanne Granger were fiercely resolute in giving their precious, only child the best education possible – even if it meant traveling to another country in order to do so. The thought both excited and frightened her. To live in a totally different country, to learn a new language, and interact with new kids who knew absolutely _nothing_ about her, was enthralling. Ireland, Germany, Scotland, Norway, or _France_ (her mother's birth place) made her heart beat faster in longing.

However, the pang of guilt made her reluctant to leave Britain because of something happening beyond her control. Her parents loved Britain and their small clinic was _thriving_ with customers that needed monthly checkups, to the natives in their district, the nearby towns and even some from outside the country who needed extensive teeth alterations. They were happy and content where they were and Hermione would rather put up with her loneliness and miserable existence in a place that made her feel as if she didn't belong rather than upset the equilibrium that her parents held.

A gurgling rumble interrupted her depressing thoughts.

She glanced at the clock and shrugged her shoulders. It was nearly noon so it was alright if she had lunch. Placing her pen down on the table, Hermione stood up with a lazy stretch, her mouth opening in a large, un-lady-like yawn. She popped her neck with a sigh and stalked from the room, intent on making a turkey sandwich. Her footsteps echoed into the empty house as she walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, smiling when seeing the sparkling clean, white-countertops beaming from the afternoon sun's rays reflecting through the glass patio door and kitchen windows.

Quickly she bustled her way around the kitchen with a reminiscence of her mother as she took out bread, lettuce, mayo, and turkey from the refrigerator. It wasn't long before she was enjoying her sandwich, chips and a glass of milk while watching the telly on the history channel. She listened with rapt attention as archeologists talked about the tomb they were digging up in Egypt. Her attention was so focused she almost didn't catch the soft flap of the metal plate that allowed the mail to pass through the door by the mailman. Turning the volume up a little louder so she could listen, Hermione stood up and retrieved the mail. With faint curiosity she flipped through the thick set of envelopes.

_Bill, bill, Dad, Mum, brochure, grand-mère, Aunt Geneviève…_

Brown eyes blinked once, twice. Her childish face glanced at the surface with wonder. In her hand lied a strange envelope made to what appeared to be old parchment. It was addressed to her in gleaming, acid-green ink:

Miss Hermione Granger  
Number 9 Langdon Drive*  
Camden District, England  
Second story, third room on the left

"What on earth…?" she muttered in confusion.

The other letters were set aside, completely forgotten. Hermione turned the envelope in her hands and looked to the back to find a waxed seal with a large "H" smack dab in the middle. A coat of arms with four animals surrounded it: a serpent, a lion, a badger, and a raven. The intricacy of the seal intrigued her. Curiosity reaching a dangerous level, Hermione broke the seal and tugged out the parchment inside. Unraveling the folded letter, Hermione found the ink to be the same elegant cursive handwriting in acid-green ink with a large emblazoned name written across the top before the short, quick-to-the-point message underneath.

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL**

**of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY**

**Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore**

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, _

_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

**Dear Miss Granger,**

**We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts **

**School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary **

**books and equipment. **

**Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.**

**Yours sincerely,**

**Minerva McGonagall**

_Deputy Headmistress_

Brown eyes blinked in straining comprehension, a mouth twisting into a frown as said eyes scanned the contents once again. The rustle of another piece of paper brought her attention. Her eyes grew deadlier and more menacing the further she read.

**HOGWARTS SCHOOL **

**of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY**

**~ UNIFORM ~**

**First-year students will require:**

**1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)  
****2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear  
****3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
****4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)**

**(Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.)**

**~ COURSE BOOKS ~**

**All students should have a copy of each of the following:**

_The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) _**by Miranda Goshawk  
**_A History of Magic_** by Bathilda Bagshot  
**_Magical Theory_ **by Adalbert Waffling  
**_A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration_** by Emeric Switch  
**_One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _**by Phyllida Spore  
**_Magical Drafts and Potions _**by Arsenius Jigger  
**_Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _**by Newt Scamander  
**_The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection _**by Quentin Trimble**

**~ OTHER EQUIPMENT ~**

**1 wand  
****1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
****1 set glass or crystal phials  
****1 set brass scales**

****Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.**

**PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS**

**ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS**

Without a word, Hermione walked to the kitchen near the patio that led out to the ground. A small little basket with an electronic device on top was nestled near the counter. Reaching down, she gently fed the letter into the shredder, hot tears falling off the end of her nose and onto the space around the shredding cutters. Cheeks red with anger, Hermione unhooked the basket and dumped the contents into the garbage can. Sniffling, she ignored her half-eaten plate and the program that was still being broadcasted. She left the letters on the stand beside the telephone and went to her bedroom where she closed her door gently, locking it. For a moment, within her small cramped room of books and a random picture, knickknacks and stuffed animals, Hermione sat on her sky-blue comforter and allowed her emotions, which she had been reigning in for weeks, to finally let go.

A shaky sigh escaped her lips as tears after tears of frustration and stress rolled down her flushed cheeks and onto her jean-covered lap. It was such a cruel prank for those kids to do that to her. Make fun of the freak, the outcast, by sending a very well-detailed letter of acceptance to a prestigious school that for a few moments, fooled her into believing that it was true. The weird girl won't be accepted into any academy in England so why not rub it in her face with all of this hogwash? Hermione turned to her side to bury her head into her feather-light pillow. Hermione turned her head slightly to the side in order to breathe. After several moments of staring off into the space of her room, she finally fell asleep.

At approximately five in the evening, Alan and Jeanne Granger entered their domicile with a bright, hopeful call to their beloved daughter.

"Honey," called her father. "We're here!" His British accent warm and comforting in the otherwise quiet home.

Instead of hearing the usual pounding of their daughter's feet ready to eagerly greet them, they only met silence. Jeanne looked at her husband. She shrugged off her coat and placed it on the nook, slipping off her comfortable tennis shoes. Still in her dentist scrubs, Jeanne checked into the kitchen only to frown. The telly was on rather loud on an informative program on the mythology and temples of Hinduism. Jeanne couldn't help but smile at that. Of course her dear Hermione would watch something educational. However, she walked to the messy counter. Hermione took up after her with her tendencies to over-clean and keep things tidy and in order and had never wasted food before. She walked back to the base of the stairs to find her husband coming from the living room, shaking his head.

"Famille!" Jeanne called again, going up the stairs, her husband following her. They made their way to her bedroom and found it locked. Sadness flashed across their eyes. Alan comfortingly wrapped his arms around his wife as she gave a small, defeated sigh.

"It'll be okay," he whispered soothingly. Jeanne turned around, her deep emerald eyes troubled.

"But what if they don't, Alan?" she demanded, her bottom lip trembling –very uncharacteristic of the normally strong, confident woman. "It isn't fair to Hermione. She's so talented and smart and a good girl and no one can see that! Why? I know that she can be a little overwhelming at times and that her intelligence sometimes intimidates people, but should that be the only reason that people should judge her?"

"No, my dear," he murmured softly so as not to disturb his daughter. "But there is nothing we can do except either brace it or try some place else."

"And leave our clinic?"

Alan looked at her, "Would it bother you?"

After only a moment, Jeanne gave a slow, negative shake. "No, it wouldn't. I think our reputation proceeds us. We won't have any trouble in relocating. But what about you? This is where you grew up most of your life, mon mari."

"Don't worry about it," he kissed the top of her head. "If I ever have to make a choice between my own happiness or my daughter's, I will pick Hermione's. She deserves happiness, wherever it may be. Besides, if it still doesn't work out, we can always come back. But let's talk about this later, all right? Let's make some dinner, Hermione might be hungry when she comes out."

Giving his wife another affectionate squeeze, Alan Granger made his way to the staircase. Jeanne looked back at her daughter's door and placed her hand lingeringly on the surface before stepping away.

"Oui." She conceded.

-

A week later, Hermione Granger heard the flap of the mail slot shifting and the small sounds of envelopes hitting against a rug. Hermione looked down the steps at the envelopes with a hint of suspicion. It had been two weeks since the prank letter was sent to her, and she hoped that with no sign of her acting barmey as they had hoped, had squandered their spirits and left her alone, but one could never be careful. She picked up the envelopes to find a couple of bank statements for both of her parents, a letter from her nonna in Italy, and another letter from her Aunt Geneviève. The next three envelopes, however, caused her to freeze in place. Her name shined mysteriously at her. **Miss Hermione Granger…Camden…Second story, third room on the left…**

Indignantly, Hermione tore up the letters with vehemence. "Stupid gits," she growled, "Why can't they just leave me alone!?"

Without a glance of remorse, Hermione threw the torn scraps of paper into the garbage can and refused to think about that wretched letter anymore.

In her bedroom, she began to write a rough draft of her letter to Aunt Geneviève who was requesting that since she was unable to attend school, she should have time to come and visit her only aunt. Much like her older sister, Aunt Geneviève was a serious, hardworking French woman as a food critic in Paris. She was well-known for her un-biased criticism. Any restaurant that wanted to be well-known looked for her rating. She was beautiful with pale white skin, full pink lips, brown eyes that were framed by long, black eyelashes, and a head full of beautifully managed, bobbed-cut blonde curls that curled around her face coyly. One time when she visited them during a food critic convention, the woman had reassured her favorite, and only, niece when hearing her concerns of ever being pretty that she would indeed grow out of her "geeky" stage as she grew up.

"Just like your mother and I," Geneviève confirmed.

Hermione loved writing to her aunt, but found that it was exceptionally hard to do so today. She could not keep a train of thought for more than five minutes before her mind took a quick detour to those mysterious letters. Hermione abruptly shook her head, inwardly scolding herself. It is only a cruel trick and nothing more. And yet, she couldn't help but wish it were true. That there was a Hogwarts…Then, just maybe…

"Stop thinking about it!" she snapped. "It is nothing but rubbish, Hogwarts indeed." She spat bitterly.

"Who would go to a school named Hogwarts anyway?"

She made way to continue her sentence when the pen suddenly cracked, leaking thick black ink all over the letter. Shock, disbelief, irritation, anger, and down-right hatred reflected in her eyes. With a growl she threw the pen down onto the black covered paper with her ink stained palm and fingers. Oh, how she wished it would melt into a puddle or burst into flames…

Eyebrows knitted downward in puzzlement when the ink continued to pool around the pen. _My goodness, how much ink was in there? I've had that pen for a good two years…_She gasped when seeing the shiny, gold clip attached to the cap melt along with the black outer surface of the pen. Standing up abruptly with her chair cluttering to the ground, Hermione watched with fear and horror as the pen melted into a puddle.

Hermione stayed as far away as she could from her desk for a couple of days.

-

In the middle of May, Hermione woke up to a rather peculiar sight.

After a rather strange dream of finding herself clutching a broom, flying rather shakily while asking the broom frantically to let her down, only to have the broom answer back that only when she learned to do so that she could touch the ground again, and of dancing gnomes, pixie teachers and giggling textbooks, Hermione woke up with a start, clutching her sheets. It was rather early on a Saturday morning, dusk barely stretching its fingers across the pitch-black velvet sky, the stars faint and disappearing. A touch of gold graced the sky and shined through her large, slightly parted windowpane. Heart thumping slightly faster than normal, Hermione gave a small, shaky sigh, almost a whispery laugh.

"There are no such things as giggling books," she chuckled.

She certainly hadn't expected an answer. A low, but distinctly sharp 'coo' reached her ears.

Fingers clutched the comforter painfully, a pair of startled brown eyes whirled to an important-looking, haughty owl: prim, proper, wings shuffling and feathers ruffling. A sleek, tawny, medium-sized owl was perched on the edge of her swivel chair with it's large, chocolate brown eyes staring down at her in a way Hermione vaguely recognized as impatient. It gave a soft, reprimanding click of its small, but sharply-looking beak, as if telling her "it is about time you woke up, now hurry for I have more important business to attend to."

With a loud shriek, Hermione toppled off of the bed and onto the floor. As if accustomed to the reaction, the owl barely moved, the calculating gaze never leaving her. On her cold floor, Hermione moved to shuffle backwards to the door, away from this insanity, when her fingers met a familiar, dry texture. Her eyes widened. With disbelief, Hermione turned her head to look over her shoulder to find an envelope with her name shining, even in the dark, in acid-green. The 'H' and 'G's were slightly curved on the ends, as usual.

A low screech entered her ears and Hermione looked to the source. The tawny owl lifted itself from its perch with a graceful flap of its wings. She watched with amazement, fear and uncertainty momentarily leaving her to gaze at the creature's magnificent actions as it surprisingly swooped and lowered itself on one of her propped knees. Hermione winced as she felt needle-sharp claws dig into the tender flesh above her knee cap. It lifted a leg and Hermione blanched. A small scroll, made of lighter parchment, and tied with a scarlet red ribbon, was leashed to the animal's small leg. The sender obviously wanted this message to be personally delivered. With trembling fingers, Hermione hesitantly untied the letter and watched as the owl gave a small cock of its head to the right before taking off in a flurry of flaps and beating feathers, leaving a couple, fine plumes behind, gently swaying in the air before touching the carpet.

Glancing nervously at the rolled up scroll, Hermione pondered over the situation.

There was no way, no way that this could be a prank now. There were no trained owls that she knew of and certainly if there were, the idiocy of the kids at school would have no brains on how to control them. And they couldn't be robotic for those talons felt VERY real. Rolling up her pant leg, Hermione winced at the small, blood-lined welts and made a note to wipe hydrogen peroxide onto the cuts. She unfurled the note.

_June 5 – 8:00_

Hermione's blood froze in her veins. In a little more than two weeks, something was going to happen at eight o' clock? A stab of helplessness filtered through the eleven-year-old girl and Hermione suddenly felt a rush of panic and desperation. Stumbling to her feet, Hermione grabbed the letter on the ground and rushed out of her room and across the hall to her parents' room. She knocked quietly on the door, whimpering in a way as to show that she was trying to be determinedly brave yet failing.

"Mère, Père! Puis-je entrer?"

Her mother's tired but worried voice called out to her. "Oui, qu'est-ce qui ne va pas, ma chèri?"

Jeanne tended to revert back to her native language when worried, especially when it came to Hermione. She asked her what was wrong as Hermione came in, shutting the door quietly as her father with a small grunt, sat himself up. A small lamp on the nightstand beside her mother was turned on, giving the room a soft glow. Her mother gave a soft yawn, her trade-mark untamable brown hair braided almost harshly to her head. Rubbing the sleep from their eyes, Alan and Jeanne turned to their daughter.

"What is the matter, Hermione?" Her father calmly questioned.

Hermione guiltily responded, "A little after being pulled from school, I got a letter…Just like this one." She handed to them the parchment-envelope and with great curiosity, Jeanne slit the top of the envelope with her husband's favorite Swiss pocket knife, the small blade gleaming against the fluorescent lighting. Jeanne tugged the letter out with deft fingers and both husband and wife poured over the letter with intent, deep brown and mesmerizing emerald displaying intrigue, disbelief, incredulity, and beginnings of loathing.

"Ma chèri," her mother sighed with soft exasperation. "It is only a prank note, probably from those annoying children at school."

"But Mama!" Hermione protested vigorously, her brown eyes flashing indignantly, "I've been receiving the SAME letter for WEEKS! I thought it was a hoax too but they keep on coming, increasing every time I don't respond! A couple days ago I received five letters each exactly alike. And just this morning, I had one personally delivered _by an owl!_"

"Owl?" Both of her parents questioned at once.

"But," Jeanne looked at her daughter with a puzzled frown, "that is impossible, Hermione. Maybe you were half asleep?"

"No!" Hermione persisted stubbornly, inwardly cursing as she felt the angry tears start to well up in her eyes. She absolutely hated crying, but tended to do just that when she was unbelievably upset or angry. She clenched her fists and the crinkling of the small note in her hand reminded Hermione of the other thing she had received. She thrust her hand out with a tilt of her chin, eyes flashing. "I also got this – it was attached to the owl and it wouldn't leave before I untied it! I even have scars on my knee where the owl landed!"

As if to prove her claim, Hermione dragged up her pant leg again to show her parents the welts and both of her parents gasped. Jeanne Granger got out of bed immediately and went to the small bathroom joined to the master bedroom and took out a medium-sized brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a cue-tip. Jeanne had Hermione sit on the bed as she attended to her knee, blowing softly on the red, slightly swollen flesh as Hermione hissed at the sting of the antibiotic as it targeted the bacteria left behind from the owl's talons.

"June 5, eight o' clock," her father muttered under his breath. He passed the note to his wife who took it from him after placing a band-aid over the scratches on Hermione's knee. Her eyebrows knitted downward.

"What do we do?" she questioned her husband with a worried tone.

Alan Granger ran a large hand through his black, slightly graying hair and sighed, his brown eyes looking at his scared, wondering daughter.

"I think that all we can do is wait and see what will happen."

"Alan! Some…some _fileur_ is writing letters to our Hermione and all you can say is to wait and see!?" her mother almost positively screeched. Alan rolled his brown eyes heaven-ward, giving his startled daughter a sly wink of the eye (she stifled the rising giggle behind smothering hands). He replied patiently to his irate wife,

"Jeanne, if the letters have been coming continuously with the same message and the same _signature_, I think it is solid that whatever this…" he glanced at the first letter with the short message, "Hogwarts is, is the real deal."

"But honey! Magic? Witches and wizards? Dragon-hide gloves? This is barmey!"

"That's my line…" he mumbled back sulkily. Jeanne glared at him murderously.

"And brooms! BROOMS, Alan! 'PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.' This…this is –"

Alan continued to try (and pitifully fail) to mollify Jeanne, only to have the French woman start raving on to something else pertaining to the school. Hermione could only watch her parents with amused and still slightly weary, worried eyes. To hear her father say that it could be possible that such a place existed made an inkling of hope and excitement blossom within her chest at the thought. _Magic_. To think that _she_ could be capable of _magic_!

Grudgingly, the Grangers came to an agreement to wait and see what would happen on the day of the mysterious person's "visit" to their abode. Jeanne, however, never failed to tell her daughter again and again, once at breakfast and once after dinner before she went to her room _not_ to get her hopes up. Jeanne Granger was a logical creature who thrived on facts, stability and reasoning. Like any other woman, Jeanne loved a good romantic movie, but being the realist that she was, she always said afterwards "it won't happen in real life." This whole Hogwarts business appeared nothing to her other than a hoax meant to hurt her little girl.

Alan was the exact opposite. He, as often as he could under the watchful eye of his wife, would come to her room and talk with her about Hogwarts, his eyes gleaming with wonder and excitement. His enthusiasm and jokes of what she could possibly do as a witch skillfully lured her into conversations about what kind of subjects that they would have for magic, of all things. They would pour over the supplies list together and wonder and dream about what life as a witch (or wizard in Alan's case) would be like. It was times like these that Hermione began to feel an _ache_, an undeniable urge inside of her, her intuition screaming that this was right, that this is where she would belong! She had always been smarter than average for her age, more wise than any of her classmates and more mature than most. She was perceptive and had a quick mind. Surely she would belong in a place that would finally _challenge_ her.

"But Papa," she gasped horrifically, her fingers tugging almost painfully at her bushy, tangled strands of brown hair. "I don't know anything about magic! What…what if I fail!?" The thought was too mortifying and her father's responding laughter was only serving to irk her.

Hermione had never been so relieved, so excited and yet so nervous when her alarm clock went off at exactly eight o' clock, June fifth. Everything that she did, from getting ready and doing all of the house-cleaning chores that her mother was assigning everyone to do, thrummed with an unknown, mysterious feeling that today would be the turning point of her life. When she had looked at herself in the mirror before going down to breakfast, Hermione had felt as if something inside her…changed.

Both Jeanne and Alan had taken the day off for this particular day. Jeanne, despite her rather pessimistic sentiments in regarding this whole fiasco, was determined that if this individual (and she used this term lightly) were to come to her house, then by God it was going to be clean enough to lick off of. The three Grangers scrubbed the tiled floors in the kitchen until their knees were bruised and theirs fingers pruned from the dirty water. They dusted off any dust particles that had gathered on the picture frames including family and close friends on tables and the telly-stand, wiping down the large windows in the living room that opened up to the front yard. Vacuuming, sweeping, fluffing, arranging – the house practically sparkled when the tall grandfather clock, made of cherry wood and lined with gold trimming, stroke six from its placement by a hutch in the living room.

Dressed in her best black plaited skirt that reached the middle of her knees with a three-quarter inch cashmere sweater, Hermione nervously bit her lip as she sat at her desk, her slipper-clad feet jumping with jitters on the carpeted floor. Out of nervous habit, she furiously tapped the end of a ball-point pen against the surface of her desk top.

The house doorbell rang like a death sentence to every occupant. Jeanne nervously checked herself in the small mirror placed on the entrance hallway wall, making sure that her shoulder-length, crazy brown hair was in a semblance of order in a simple yet distinguishing bun at the back of her head, her pearl-studded earrings in place and no wrinkles on her sky-blue blouse and black pencil skirt. She looked behind her to find Alan dressed in a simple pair of khakis and a nice, forest-green striped button-up shirt; his sensible black hair nicely combed.

She opened the door and almost fainted at the sight of a rather tall, ominous-appearing man dressed in nothing but black. He wore slightly form-fitting clothes with matching black slacks that had the old-fashioned buttons on the bottom of his shiny black loafers. A black jacket that reminded Jeanne especially strong of a more modernized Victorian style (what with the buttons on the sleeves she had noticed, along with the strict upper collar) and a long black cloak to keep away the chill draped over his thin form.

Her green eyes stared up with a start at an answering pair of reserved black orbs that seemed to resemble spilt ink. Black hair that looked the lightest bit oily lied around the man's pale, slightly sallow face and rather prominent, hooked nose. He parted his thin lips.

"Good evening," he silkily greeted the shocked French woman and Jeanne fought everything within herself not to let her knees knock against each other. "Mrs. Granger, I presume."

It wasn't much of a question. And Jeanne could only find it in herself to nod.

"May I come in?"

"Y-Yes, of course!" Jeanne answered, her brain finally gearing back up to speed, stepping aside and widening the door for him to come through. The man entered the two-story house, taking care to wipe his feet on the door mat. His lanky strands of black hair, just barely reaching his shoulders, swayed ever the slightest as he looked at the almost obsessively-cleaned domicile. Jeanne, narrowing her eyes, almost believed that she had caught the slightest hint of a smirk on the man's lips.

Looking between his rather rudely staring wife and the man that was quietly taking in his surroundings, Alan gave a sharp cough.

"Would you like some tea?"

* * *

YEAH!! Chapter 2 done and the story is on the roll! (Suddenly turns stormy) One review!!? I saw a lot of story alerts but not even more than one review? I don't care if it is one word. Tell me what you think! What do you expect to see in the future! Thank you to Silver Sailor Ganymede for reviewing and giving me constructive criticism!! :D

Anyways, thank you to those who alerted my story - that was still a heart warmer. But...I can't remember and I'm too lazy to check the books, but...what year is Luna Lovegood in? I can't remember if she is with Harry, Ron, and Hermione or in Ginny's year. It's seriously vexing me. (Smirks) Bet you didn't think that I would bring Snape in already, huh? I have a little surprise for next time as well. (Sticks her tongue out.)

And the thing about Hermione's address...I don't know how people put their addresses in England, so I apologized if I horribly ruined it or did it completely wrong.

Thanks!

-Miss Artemis


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